


Purgatorium

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Blood Drinking, M/M, Masturbation, Purgatory, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has what Benny wants. Quid pro quo, Clarice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purgatorium

Purgatory was a null zone, in more ways than one. You couldn’t forever-die. You could only hunt, hurt and heal in an unending loop, an ouroboros of discomfort. It was the law of the land – what monsters were doomed to repeat upon their deaths from the material plane, from Earth.

And the ‘hunting’ bit wasn’t even for sustenance; it was just habit. It was something to do, old rivalries and hatreds to break the boredom. Sure, there were areas of Purgatory to inhabit that were safer than others, even pleasant – the lakesides, certain meadows that soaked up what little sunlight penetrated the gloom – and those were the rewards for battles won. But there was no aging or true hunger, just _appetite_. Cravings for those things remembered from their alive times, bitterness because they could no longer have them.

So the monsters fought. They busied their minds and their claws and their teeth with conflict, to forget. To forget all that they’d lost.

Benny was a force to be reckoned with, a threat among threats. Most beasts gave him a very wide berth. Even the vampires, his own kind, feared him. Regardless, he found himself jaded, done with it. If he thought it’d work, he’d have fallen on his own make-shift sword weeks – months? years? – ago.

Benny had forgotten how much he missed human flesh. Well, the human blood beneath the human flesh. Warm, red, heady.

Until a human, an honest-to-God human, fell into Purgatory along with bits of shredded Leviathan stuck to his clothes.

Until Dean Winchester.

Until Benny remembered what it was to taste human blood again.

Interestingly, the human was not confined by the stasis in this pocket of existence. He hungered, his stomach growled and he experienced genuine thirst. He needed sleep, and would scrape off his growing beard with a shard of obsidian.

He could _change_. It was miraculous to see.

Being a hunter and all, the human fought like a cornered cat in the beginning, but very soon came around to the idea that Benny was something of a bad-ass, an important ally to have in his corner. No one fucked with Benny. More importantly, however, Benny learned Dean was an alcoholic. Two long unpredictable days without booze and he was trembling and vomiting. A vampire’s spit had anesthetic properties, not unlike a mosquito, and it was the only thing that got Dean through those first weeks. It was his lifeline.

Dean began to think of Benny as a person, not a fiend. Benny found a cave, fought off a rougarou for it, and lined it with moss and the shed furs of certain shifters, making a sort-of home for them. Not only was Dean an anomaly, that rarest of non-monstrous things, he became _friend._

And so it happened, with no real surprise to either party involved, that Dean grew to enjoy it when Benny fed. An addict is an addict is… 

Benny took to nuzzling at Dean’s neck, dragging his coarse tongue across the salty skin until Dean was numb and his lids drooped. An unwitting smile would drift over his lips and he’d tilt his head to expose himself to the bite. He’d catch his breath when the teeth sunk in, grabbing fistfuls of Benny’s shirt in his hands. And then he’d bleed so pretty.

It all came back to Benny, his halcyon days spent on Earth, preying on willing, warm-blooded youths. He remembered oiling his dining companions with strong liquor to flavor the blood, and while he didn’t typically have such luxuries in Purgatory, he could offer Dean berries and honey and roast meats (the origins of which were best left a mystery.) He kept Dean well-fed because in doing so, he served his own needs as well as Dean’s.

Benny was a large man, almost six feet tall and built broadly, barrel-chested and strong. That’s the way he was when he was created by the vampire, his maker, and how he remained. Unchanging, eternal. Dean was taller but more rawboned – at first. Part of the satisfaction of keeping Dean was in watching him change, as only a mortal could do. Benny was slyly responsible for Dean growing more solid, filling out around the sinewy muscle and gradually, he began to rival Benny’s own girth.

Dean didn’t seem to mind all that much, keeping to their grove, only hazarding out when he needed to relieve himself or shake off monotony. He wrote, lots, with burnt sticks on stolen paper. To someone named Sam. But sometimes he did want to hunt with Benny. For sport.

These were Benny’s favorite times because Dean was smart and sure, and he didn’t mind playing bait. He smelled like an appetizer to 99% of the occupants of Purgatory, but Mother help them if they thought he was defenseless.

The weather was turning colder, and while summer and winter didn’t exist as such, the leaves would soon start dropping and the piss-poor excuse for a sun would hide for large chunks of time behind expectant clouds. Food would grow scarce, and certain species of freaks actually hibernated.

One day, late, they traipsed home “from safari” as Dean would call it, a harpy in tow for dinner, both of them covered in the near-black blood of the creature. They’d decapitated the thing because Dean drew the line at eating humanoids and it creeped him out, the way the harpy stared at him with the homely eyes of a school marm. Headless, it just looked like a giant turkey.

Dean glanced at Benny and grinned smugly, teeth white in his dirty face. Tonight would be good.

The elaborate procedure of dressing the ‘bird’ was well worth the time, and Dean spent almost an hour meticulously plucking the feathers, saving a few of the larger ones to use for quills or arrow fletching.

Benny readied the spit and set up the carcass to roast. They stuffed the cavity with herbs and something that passed for potato. Even though it would taste like ash in Benny’s mouth, the smell was delectable but more importantly, Dean would like it. And Benny liked that Dean would like it.

In the few hours it took the meat to cook, Benny left Dean watching dinner while he traveled to the valley to trade shinies with the fae, who made a potent fermented nectar. By the time he returned, the dim that was Purgatory’s night had stained the sky and the cave was glowing with flickering torchlight.

Dean folded up pages of notes and put away his writing gear when he saw Benny.

At some point Benny might pry, sneak a read, but no time soon. He wagged a huge wineskin full of drink and tossed it to Dean. “The good stuff,” he announced.

“You don’t say?” Dean unstoppered the wineskin and took a long swallow, wincing and blinking afterwards. And then he exhaled happily. His predisposition towards booze was complicated – love/hate – because of its rarity and how much he longed for the damned stuff.

Tonight, there was love in the air. 

He took another draught, pulling the wineskin back to form a thin arc of the flowery liquor, landing right into his mouth. His chin was shiny with it.

Benny hungered. But Benny was patient. When your lifespan was potentially infinite, you learned patience.

Even so, dinner went on for an exorbitant amount of time, Dean comfortable on his mountain of furs. The cave was warm enough for him to be in a t-shirt, stripped of his coat. He leisurely ate from a wooden bowl without utensils, fingers slick from the juices of the meat, and he helped himself to serving after serving of the roast vegetables, knowing that winter was coming and times were soon to get lean. It wasn’t beyond Dean to gorge himself.

Benny made bad jokes and small talk; what else could he do? Stare at the way Dean’s hands moved? The way his tongue slid over his lips? Fixate on how his stomach mounded and his sweat smelled rich and sweet? Be an all ‘round creepy fucker? Apparently.

If it bothered Dean, he didn’t say so. He sucked the grease off his fingertips and talked with his mouth full, making sounds that Benny couldn’t help but replay in his subconscious because he didn’t sleep, didn’t dream.

When Dean finally slowed down and leaned back, his eyes heavy-lidded and one hand rubbing lazy strokes over his thick belly, Benny picked up the wineskin and sat beside him. Dean watched him sidelong, the fire dancing shadows across his face, and his brows arched as if to say “What do _you_ want?”. But the corners of his mouth turned up and they both knew the score.

Benny handed over the wineskin and as Dean weighed it in his palm, Benny rolled up his sleeves. He settled in behind and he felt Dean relax, heavy with food and drink.

“Be gentle,” Dean said dryly.

Benny coughed. “You’re such a fragile flower; won’t bruise your petals, princess. Promise.” Which wasn’t true because Dean still wore purple marks on his shoulders from the last time.

Benny’s big hands began on Dean’s middle, pressing all over the heft of living human flesh and if Dean got half-hard from his touch, well, so be it. That was Dean’s business. He kneaded his way up, a laborer’s firm, calloused grip.

Dean made an unnamable sound deep in his chest, tilted his head and raised the wineskin.

“Go ‘head. Drink.” Benny hovered a palm over Dean’s throat, curled fingers until they pinched muscle and the race of his pulse was clear.

As Dean drank and his throat bobbed under Benny’s palm, and the punch of spiked nectar hit the air, Benny’s fangs – all the layers of them – cut through his gums. He wanted to feel Dean drink as he drank. He coveted the humid skin, warm and damp. He longed for it on his tongue.

Dean panted and stopped drinking, his lips wet. He put his hand on his own dick and squeezed as Benny licked across his throat. “God, would you fucking do it already?” he groaned, slurring.

“Shuddup. Less talkin’, more drinkin’.” Benny’s other hand had Dean’s upper arm held firm and he tightened his grip. More bruises.

“Fucker,” Dean mumbled, but he complied. Just had to be sure to lodge a formal complaint, was all. He sucked on the wineskin, no more fancy show-off moves, until it collapsed in on itself, empty. The wineskin fell to the cave floor and Dean shifted with a grunt. His belly, taut and shoving at the confines of his waistband, rocked like a sandbag.

Benny nosed at the crook of his neck. Dean popped his snap and had his fly open and his cock in his hand, fat and blushing, navigating around his over-full gut. His hand jerked, and Benny waited for Dean’s pulse to time out just right; he knew all of Dean’s tells by now. How he dropped his jaw and drew his brows, and his particular rhythm of skin on skin.

Just as Dean’s breath was hitching and his body coiled, Benny bit. He stabbed an entire mouthful of needles into Dean’s throat. The taste hit his system like a bomb. Hot, nectar-spiked blood poured across his tongue and Benny couldn’t see. He knew his eyes were open but the world became one great blur, nothing discernable, everything red. Dean went tense, shivering, and with a moan that echoed off the cave’s walls, he came.

Benny rode out Dean’s last twitches of pleasure. He swam in the honeyed blood filling his belly and swallowed until Dean squirmed beneath him and shoved him off. The sudden cold of the body, gone, almost made Benny whine. When Dean was done, Benny was done; the vampire would have to be content with that. Humans were perishable.

“Greedy bastard,” Dean said as he sat upright, a hand pressed to his neck. His eyes were vague.

Benny couldn’t really argue with that. After the world swam back into focus, he grinned, retracted his sharp teeth and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You aw’right?” he managed, over a growing second-hand buzz.

Dean wiped off, put his junk back in his pants but didn’t zip up. Benny doubted he could, at this point, as stuffed and content as he was. Dean smirked and put his arms behind his head, sinking into a recline. The wound had ebbed to a sluggish bleed. “Now ain’t that a loaded question.”

“Is relative, I know.”

“Mmm. You said it, brother.” Dean’s gaze turned woozier, his attention drifting. 

Benny rightly figured Dean was sapped, exhausted from the hunt, blood loss, the booze. He leaned back on his haunches and watched Dean’s broad torso rise and fall. In a scant minute, Dean was asleep, his breath hissing peaceably.

“Yeah, right. Leave me to clean up.” Which Benny usually did but tonight, he decided to forgo chores in favor of enjoying his lazy liquor high.

Benny wandered to the ledge of rock that passed for a desk and stared at the pile of papers Dean had collected and covered with his dense scrawl. He sat down on a stump, dragging one page free from the rest. With a last glance to be sure Dean was safely in the arms of Somnus, he began to read.

_Hey, Sammy. Today, I saw a unicorn. I fucking kid you not. Did you know they look like gargantuan goats? Yeah, seriously. They ain’t pretty. I don’t get what the big deal is …_


End file.
